Chicken Soup for the Soul Stories
by Iam A. Writer
Summary: Stories from various Chicken Soup for the Soul books. Some have been slightly changed. Please r/r.
1. Please, Sign My Yearbook

Please, Sign My Yearbook  
Sitting in class, I concentrated on the back of Brian's neck. Evil thoughts filled my mind; I was secretly waiting for his head to explode. It didn't, and I was forced to watch my ex-boyfriend laugh and chat with every person in the room while he blatantly ignored me.   
  
After Brian and I broke up, third period became pure torture. While I was still nursing what I considered to be the world's most broken heart, I was bombarded with the sight of my ex's excessive flirting, as if he were proving to me that he was so obviously over his heartache. During class, Brian would gossip loudly about his weekend, his latest party and his new car.   
  
Maybe Brian was trying to get back at me for breaking off our six-month relationship. Maybe he thought that if he looked happy, it would hurt me more than I had hurt him. At the end of the relationship, I let him cry on my shoulder but held a strong heart as he begged me not to go. Of course, he covered his pain very well at school, as if our tearful good-bye had never occurred.   
  
Immediately after the breakup, Brian started dating another girl. She was graduating that spring, as if that were a big feat for a junior-year boy. She took him to the prom and announced it right beside me in math class. I, too, had a date for the prom, but it still hurt. My hurt curdled and turned to anger. It felt like he was trying to upset me, trying to rub his happiness in my face. Every time I saw them together, I wanted to scream. It felt like the pain was going to tear me in half, or at least force me to consider tearing her in half.   
  
School was coming to an end, and I eagerly waited for summer vacation, my savior. No more Algebra Two and that gnawing feeling in my stomach each day.   
  
One day in dreaded third period, Brian leaned over to me, and to my surprise, he asked me to sign his yearbook. I must have sat there for a full minute before I got over the shock and said yes.   
  
I thought to myself, This is my chance. I could really let him have it! I could tell him that I knew what he was doing, that he was trying to hurt me, and that it wasn't fair. I could tell him that I saw through his act, that he and I both knew it was exactly that, an act. But then it hit me, what good would come of that? Would belittling him make me feel better, or would it just perpetuate the pain that we both needed to recover from?   
  
Instead of writing of the pain I had endured, I listed all of the fun times we had shared. I wrote about the first place we had ever kissed, the gifts he had given me, the lessons I had learned – the ones he had taught me – and the first "I love you" that was whispered between us. It took up one page, and that quickly became two, until my hand was tired of writing. There were still a million more great memories crowding the corners of my mind, and I remembered many more throughout the day. It made me realize the things I learned from him and what great experiences we had shared. I finished by telling him I held no hard feelings, and I hoped he felt the same.   
  
Maybe what I wrote in his yearbook made me look weak, maybe he thought I was pathetic for still holding onto the memories of our relationship. But writing all those things helped me; it helped me heal the wounds that still hurt in my heart. It felt liberating to let go of the grudge; I finally felt free from my anger.   
  
I realized that Brian had taught me one final lesson: forgiveness. Someday, when he is fifty and has his own children, he may stumble upon his high school yearbook, and they will ask who Stacy was. I hope he can look back and say I was someone who really cared about him, loved him, and most importantly, that I was someone who taught him about forgiveness.   
  
By Stacy Brakebush  
Reprinted by permission of Stacy Brakebush © 2000, from Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul III by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen and Kimberly Kirberger.   



	2. Susan's Magic Carpet

Susan's Magic Carpet  
Wrinkles of confusion rippled across Holly's forehead as she unwrapped the gift from her best friend, Susan.   
  
"I...I thought you could use it for something." Susan's stammered explanation did nothing to help us understand why a twelve-by-eighteen-inch dark blue carpet remnant was being presented as a birthday gift.   
  
My heart went out to our daughter. Starting out at a new school during her freshman year had been a difficult adjustment. Until she met Susan, Holly had experienced little success making new friends.   
  
The murmured "thanks" was barely audible as Holly tried valiantly not to allow her disappointment to show. She laid the piece of carpet on the kitchen counter, and the two girls headed outside to play with the family dogs.   
  
The extent of Holly's disappointment over the incident didn't become evident until the following evening when she came downstairs to say good night. "Well, I guess we know how much my best friend thinks of me, huh, Mom?" Her attempt at a breezy tone failed miserably.   
  
Still bewildered by the situation myself, I didn't have much to offer in the way of enlightenment. "I'm so sorry, honey," was all I could manage to say.   
  
The next morning, I carried a bulging kitchen sack outside. My heart wrenched as I lifted the lid of the trash can and saw Susan's carpet lying among the other discarded items. Hesitating only a moment, I reached in and plucked it from amid the debris. After giving it a light brushing, I brought it into the house and tucked it away in the hall closet. Overshadowed by the business of daily living, the carpet was soon forgotten.   
  
Prior to Holly's birthday, Susan had been a regular visitor in our home. On several occasions, she rode the bus home with Holly and was one of the few friends ever permitted to stay over on a school night. The girls did their homework together and went to bed at a reasonable hour.   
  
Now as I slid the evening meal into the oven, I realized it had been nearly three weeks since we'd even heard mention of Susan's name. I missed her warm smile and eager-to-please ways.   
  
A rustle at the front door told me Holly had arrived home from school. "Susan invited me to come over to her house after school tomorrow," she announced as she plunked her books down on the kitchen table. Although her voice carried a so-what attitude, I sensed she was pleased by the invitation.   
  
In spite of the number of times Susan had visited with us, our invitations were never returned. "She wants you to come, too, so you can meet her foster mom." The words "foster mom" dangled in the air like a spent birthday balloon. Susan never talked about her home life, and we didn't find it necessary to pry.   
  
Arrangements were made, and the girls rode home together on the school bus the following day. As I negotiated the winding country road that led to her house, Susan babbled nervously about her foster mom and the seventeen cats she had taken in and cared for with Susan's help. Several of these foster kitties scattered as we pulled into the rutted gravel driveway.   
  
A tall angular woman wearing a shapeless tan sweater over navy blue pants stood in the screened doorway to greet us as we approached the small farmhouse. "Excuse the mess," she apologized, holding the door open while we threaded our way through stuff that seemed to be everywhere. Knowing my reputation for neatness, Holly's eyes darted in my direction to quickly assess my reaction to such chaos. Susan's foster mom waved a hand toward the kitchen counter, which was barely visible through the assortment of cat medicines. "This is my medicine cabinet," she explained.   
  
Susan ushered us through the house. It seemed to be alive with four-legged fur balls roaming underfoot and sprawling across the backs of the dingy sofa and chairs. She proudly showed us her room, which was sparsely but neatly decorated with used furnishings. A tarnished picture frame sitting on a crate beside the bed contained pictures of Susan's parents and siblings from whom, we later learned, she had long since been separated.   
  
As the girls flopped down on the grayish-white bedspread to compare notes about the school day, I followed Susan's foster mom – who introduced herself as Glenda – into the kitchen. After clearing a small area, Glenda placed a couple of mugs on the table. Her hand trembled slightly as she poured us each a cup of steaming black coffee. The tightness of her features began to relax as we sipped our coffee and chatted about her cats.   
  
A warm glow shone in her eyes as she revealed to me her fondness for Susan. But her expression turned pensive when she referred briefly to the girl's past. In a short time, I came to respect this generous-hearted woman who had opened her home to a young girl and attempted to make a difference in her life.   
  
As daylight began to fade, we offered our thanks for the visit and said good-bye.   
  
Holly sat quietly in the car on the way home. Stealing a glance, I noticed her back was ramrod-straight. Her head and shoulders were thrust forward as if willing the car to move faster. No sooner had we come to a stop in the driveway than she flung open the car door and walked purposefully toward the side gate. Curious, I shifted into park and followed. A lump caught in my throat as I observed my daughter standing next to the trash can peering inside. Her shoulders slumped as she replaced the lid and shuffled into the house.   
  
After pulling the car into the garage, I went inside and headed for the hall closet. By this time, Holly was sitting at the kitchen table staring out the window.   
  
"Is this what you were looking for?" I placed the piece of carpet on the table in front of her.   
  
"Thanks, Mom." A tear or two slipped from her eye and splashed onto the dark blue remnant that, as if by magic, had become the most precious birthday present in the whole world.   
  
By Karen Taylor  
Reprinted by permission of Karen Taylor © 1999, from Chicken Soup for the Christian Family Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Patty Aubery and Nancy Mitchell Autio.   
  



	3. A Piece of Chalk

A Piece of Chalk  
  
In our home, it was natural to fear our father.   
  
Even our mother was afraid of him. As children, my sister and I thought every family was like that. Every family had an unpredictable alcoholic who was impossible to please, and a praying mama who was there to protect the children. We thought God planned it that way.   
  
We were good children; Mama was always telling us we were, even if Daddy couldn't see it. Part of this was because we dared not do anything. We were quiet, timid children who rarely spoke — and never when Daddy was home. People thought God had blessed Mama with the sweetest girls. She was always so proud!   
  
Then came the day we found something new and fun to do.   
  
We knew it would not upset anyone. We never took the risk of doing that. On our house, we had a wooden door. We discovered we could draw pictures on it with chalk and it would rub right back off. We could have lots of fun.   
  
We set to work drawing and making lots of pretty pictures all over it. We had a great time. It surprised us to see how talented we were. These pictures were good! That's when we decided to finish our masterpiece. We were proud of our work. We knew Mama would just love it. She would want all her friends to come see it, and maybe they would want us to do their doors, too. We had found something we were really good at!   
  
The praise we expected did not come. Instead of seeing the beauty in our work, all Mama could see was the time and effort she would need to clean it off. She was mad. We did not understand this, but we knew all about anger — and we were in big trouble!   
  
Off we ran to find a place to hide. In our wooded yard, it was not hard for two small children to find safety. Together, we huddled behind a tree and did not move. Soon we heard the frightened voices of Mom and our neighbors calling out to us. Still we did not budge. They were afraid that we had run away or had drowned in the pond out back. We were afraid of being found.   
  
The sun set, and it began to get dark. The people around us became more anxious, and we became more frightened. Time was slipping by, and the longer we hid there, the harder it was to come out. Mom was, by now, convinced something awful had happened to us, and she resorted to calling the police. We could tell something was happening, because we could hear all the voices drawn together in a group. Then the search was on again, this time with strong male voices overpowering the others. If we were frightened before, now we were terrified!   
  
As we clung together in the dark, we became aware of yet another voice, one we instantly recognized with horror: our daddy. But there was something strangely different about his voice. In it, we heard something we had never heard before. Fear, agony, despair — we couldn't put a name to it then, but that's what it was. Then came the tears and prayers intermingled together.   
  
Was that our daddy on his knees pleading with God? Our daddy, with tears running down his face, promising God that he would give his life to him if he would safely return his girls?   
  
Nothing in our lives had prepared us for this kind of shock. Neither of us remembers making a decision to come out. We were drawn to him like a magnet, our fears dissolving into the forest. We don't know yet if we actually took steps, or if God somehow moved us out and into his arms. What we do remember are those strong loving arms holding us and crying, holding us like we were precious.   
  
Things were different after that. We had a new daddy. It was like the old one was buried that day in the forest. God had taken him and replaced him with another, one who loved us and was ever thankful for us. Mama always told us that God was a God of miracles. I guess she was right. He changed our whole family with a piece of chalk.   
  
By Holly Smeltzer  
Reprinted by permission of Holly Smeltzer © 2000, from Chicken Soup for the Father's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Mark and Chrissy Donnelly and Jeff Aubery.   
  
  
  
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	4. Profile of a Prime-Timer

Profile of a Prime Timer  
  
We true prime-timers were here before the Pill, the population explosion and disposable diapers. We were here before we were called "senior citizens."   
  
We were here before TV, penicillin, polio shots, antibiotics and open-heart surgery. Before frozen food, nylon, Xerox, radar, fluorescent lights, credit cards, ballpoint pens, Frisbees and fiber optics.   
  
For us, time-sharing meant togetherness, not computers or condos. Coeds never wore jeans. Girls wore Peter Pan collars. We were here before panty hose and drip-dry clothes, before icemakers and dishwashers, clothes dryers, freezers and electric blankets. Before men wore long hair and earrings and before women wore tuxedos.   
  
We were here before Ann Landers, Grandma Moses and the Kinsey Report. We were here before facelifts, tummy tucks, liposuction and hair transplants. We thought cleavage was what butchers did. We were here before sex changes. Before Viagra. We just made do with what we had.   
  
We were here before computers. A mouse pad was where mice hung out. To log-on was to add wood to fire. A chip was a piece of wood. Hardware meant hardware, and software wasn't even a word. A hard drive was a long, grueling journey. A CD was something you invested in. Windows were for looking out of. A virus was a flu bug that people caught. Backing up was what you hoped never happened to your toilet, especially when you had company.   
  
We were here before vitamins, Jeeps, pizza, Cheerios, instant coffee, decaffeinated anything, light anything and McDonald's. We thought fast food was what you ate during Lent. If we had been asked to explain VCR, CIA, NATO, UFO, PMS, GNP, MBA, BMW, SDI, NFL, PSA and ATM, we'd have said "alphabet soup."   
  
We prime-timers are a hardy bunch when you think of how our world has changed, all we have learned and the adjustments we have made. I'm pretty proud of us.   
  
Let's keep in touch. Just e-mail me, send a fax, leave a message on my answering machine or call me on my cell phone. If I don't answer, tell my voicemail you called – after the beep, leave your name, your number and a brief message, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. If you need me quickly, call my pager. If all else fails, come on over to my house, take a seat in one of the rockers on my porch and we'll visit the old-fashioned way – face to face and in person – and let the rest of the world go by.   
  
By Nardi Reeder Campion  
Reprinted by permission of Nardi Reeder Campion © 2000, from Chicken Soup for the Golden Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Paul J. Meyer, Barbara Russell Chesser and Amy Seeger.   
  



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